


and i like the way you kiss me (don’t know if i should)

by taare



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Post Episode S03e03 - Meetings Have Biscuits, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:22:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23870788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taare/pseuds/taare
Summary: Having Eve this close again is intoxicating.Eve, for her part, is looking directly at her, breathing hard, eyes wide open, closing the distance between them.Wait. Closing the distance between them?And then Eve’s lips are on hers, and her eyes are still open — Villanelle knows, because her eyes are open too — and she does not know what to make of this new sensation because how do you react when what you’ve been chasing for the better part of a year (and maybe your whole life?) finally catches up to you?—If Episode 3 had ended the way we all wanted it to. Rating change; now complete!
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 26
Kudos: 292





	1. you’ve got this strange effect on me

**Author's Note:**

> I coudn’t watch the episode and not have feelings about it, so here’s an extremely hastily-written deconstruction of the scene that I couldn’t stop thinking about (or rewatching. For science.)

Niko is gone. 

“Valerie —” Eve starts, “— I’m his _wife_.” Valerie stares at her, chunky necklace and all, determining whether she can reveal precious confidential details to the woman who claims to be Niko’s wife, but has shown up to see him less than once a week — never for more than forty-five minutes — and always in varying states of disarray. 

Yeah, even Eve wouldn’t trust herself with that information. Valerie seems to take pity on her, though. “He did say something about Poland...” and cuts herself off, before walking away. 

Eve stares at Valerie’s retreating figure. _“He was doing quite well, actually,”_ she’d said. But Poland? What the fuck is she supposed to do with that? Is she supposed to go chasing after him in some god-forsaken backwater town, trying to lure him back into the country with the promise of mediocre sex and a pledge that everything’s changed? Would Niko even buy that, after everything with — 

Eve shakes her head, not willing to think about the reason Niko was here in the first place. Not willing to think about who had caused this whole mess to begin with. That way lies danger, and Eve has been so, so, good about avoiding danger after the sordid affair in Rome. Eve had moved on. 

Until Kenny. The sound of sirens breaks her reverie, and Eve remembers — god, she remembers Kenny’s broken form on the pavement, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, blood on the ground and in the air, pooling crimson and metallic around him. Her thumb digs into the flesh of her palm, a painful nervous tic she’d developed in university. 

She reaches for her phone. 

_Are you in Poland?_

She needs to find Niko. For all they’d — he’d — been through, he doesn’t deserve to end up collateral damage in a war he never signed up for. She can’t protect what she can’t control, and she can’t control the situation when her own husband won’t tell her if he’s in a different time zone half a continent away.

_Can you call me??!_

Crap. Three punctuation marks. She hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, so:

_Please Call!_

Autocorrect capitalizes both words for some reason. _I need to speak to you._ is a fast follow up. Eve stares at the device for a moment, as if willing the little bubble to pop up on the screen, three little dots the harbinger of a response. 

She sighs and puts the phone away — Niko had never turned off read receipts for her; she’ll know when he sees the texts. 

—

It’s not even five minutes until: 

_Hi again!_

She was never this chirpy in her messages. God damn it, what was Niko playing at? Running away and hiding never solved anything... unless you’re Eve and hiding from an international assassin in the kitchen of a Korean restaurant, her conscience nags. She scoffs. It’s not the same. 

_Can we please speak?_

Texting for them had always been utilitarian — more _please pick up some milk_ than _i miss you, baby, what are you wearing?_ She used to like that about Niko — a sensible but goofy man with a vast collection of pillow-soft t-shirts and a penchant for bridge. 

They’d met at a dinner party shortly after university, mutual friends making the introduction, and had fallen together shortly afterwards. He’d been everything her previous boyfriend was not — easy. Safe. Reliable. And maybe he wasn’t as exciting as she’d hoped; maybe his preference for missionary was predictable, but relationships are about compromise. You can’t always get what you want, didn’t the saying go? 

They’d been engaged within the year, married by the following. 

_Please answer me. I want to make sure you’re safe—_

Eve glances out of the window, out in front of her, trying to think of how to convince Niko to respond. Would he reply if he thought _she_ was after him, if Villanelle — 

If Villanelle... was in front of her? 

“Hi, Eve.”

* * *

Villanelle likes to think that she pulls off most clothes pretty well. Of course, it helps to have the money to get them specifically altered — there’s never a wrong occasion for a well-tailored suit — but today’s outfit is deliberately three sizes too big, layered over a plain white tee. She wanted to be comfortable when she saw Eve again; reminding Eve of how boring the mustache looked in similar clothing would be a bonus. Nothing wrong with a subconscious favorable comparison when it suited her needs. 

The British are so annoying with their obsession with double-deckers — Villanelle has to practically crawl over the other passengers before she can make her way up the stairs to her intended target. She’s the one sneaking up on Eve, when Villanelle isn’t even supposed to know Eve is still alive — 

—which is why she really should have seen it coming when Eve grabs her by the lapels and shoves her against the wall with a feral scream. Villanelle is knocked off balance, allowing Eve to get a few shots in, arms cartwheeling everywhere with a surprising ferocity. Well. Maybe not so surprising, given the last time they’d seen each other, Villanelle had _shot_ Eve —

“I’m not here for you,” she manages to get out in between Eve’s punches, before another blow lands directly on her face. Villanelle grabs her nose, reflexively parrying Eve with one hand while shoving her backwards directly into someone’s lap. 

Villanelle reaches for Eve’s arms, pulling her upwards and restraining her while shuffling them both to the back of the bus. The woman in the seat behind them hurriedly gathers her purse and shifts away, all the while watching the ridiculous scene play out — because it _is_ ridiculous, she is trained in combat and Eve has managed to catch her off guard. It won’t happen again, because she is here for a reason —

Villanelle clambers easily over the seat back, using her body weight to pin Eve in place, her neck dangling in the aisle. “Smell me, Eve,” Villanelle demands, elbow on Eve’s collarbone and face very, very near her own. “What do I smell of to you?” She’d thought shooting Eve had felt good. She’d thought she wanted Eve dead, a well-deserved punishment for rejecting Villanelle and her feelings wholesale. She’d thought she’d taken care of it. 

She’d thought wrong. Having Eve this close again is intoxicating. 

Eve, for her part, is looking directly at her, breathing hard, eyes wide open, closing the distance between them. 

Wait. Closing the distance between them? 

And then Eve’s lips are on hers, and her eyes are still open — Villanelle knows, because her eyes are open too — and she does not know what to make of this new sensation because how do you react when what you’ve been chasing for the better part of a year (and maybe your whole life?) finally catches up to you? 

Eve’s lips are soft. Their noses brush, the angle awkward as Eve shifts slightly, and once again Villanelle should have seen this coming but maybe she should cease to be shocked by Eve Polastri’s inimitable ability to continue surprising her. 

The thing is, Villanelle had never really expected Eve to give her what she wanted. Not after Italy, where their charming game of cat and mouse had come to a near-fatal head, and Eve had so thoroughly dismissed the possibility of any future with the two of them together. 

But now Eve is kissing her, and nothing really makes sense, because you don’t kiss people who have tried to kill you, but Villanelle doesn’t want it to stop. Which is why when Eve pulls away, neither of them breathe for a moment. Eve looks stunned, as though she hadn’t quite intended for events to get carried away like this, but Villanelle doesn’t care, not when Eve is kissing her, when she feels this much —

Pain, as Eve steels her gaze momentarily before head-butting Villanelle directly in the face. Always with the face, this one, hadn’t someone ever taught her how hard face wounds are to hide — 

Villanelle jumps backwards, back over the seats and away from the scene where Eve is clutching her head, rolling sideways in pain on the floor as Villanelle makes her getaway. No one stops her as she quickly exits just as the doors close, the bus pulling away as Eve appears in the rear window, gaze connecting with Villanelle’s. 

Villanelle watches until the bus blends into traffic. To her horror, a smile is tugging on her lips — of all the ways she had replayed their meeting in her head, this was one scenario she hadn’t planned for. 

This one was going to bruise.


	2. and i like it

Eve is more diligent about locking her door these days. 

The keys jingle as Eve enters her flat and drops them unceremoniously on the table, eyes scanning the dim room for any signs of tampering. She’s certain that if Villanelle has been here, she won’t need to look very hard — the latter had a tendency of leaving rather obvious calling cards to announce her visit.

“Hello?” she tests, then realizes she should probably turn on the lights to better investigate. She flicks on the lamp, poised to move, just in case... 

But no one else is in the room. Eve visibly deflates, sighing and slumping in bed, hand rising to cover the still-smarting mark on her forehead. Everything hurts. 

She casts her mind to the first gifts Villanelle had graced her with, the outrageously expensive dress and designer perfume, both of which Eve had tried on immediately. Then Villanelle had shown up in person. Even then, their skirmishes had bordered on the absurd — Eve brandishing a toilet brush, Villanelle nearly drowning her in the bathtub. Eve hadn’t been sure whether she’d make it out of the bathroom alive. 

Instead, they’d had dinner. It feels like an eon ago, that meeting. Since then, Eve has stabbed someone and bludgeoned another to death with an axe. She’s been stalked and spied on and shot, recruited to join a top-secret government agency and fired from it, all without the ability to prove it even existed. Lost a husband, a best friend, her home, and any semblance of a normal life. 

Eve is _exhausted_.

She yanks off her jacket, sleeves getting tangled in her arms before she’s able to wrangle them free. She leans backwards, back making blessed contact with the bed, arms by her side. She should really take off her shirt and jeans, and there’s something lumpy under the covers, but Eve can’t bring herself to care. Until: 

_Admit it Eve. You wish I was here._

Eve jolts back up, scanning the room to investigate the source of the sound. Where was it coming from? 

She clambers back on the bed, yanking at the sheets to uncover the machine. For it’s certainly a recording device of some kind, and a slightly more thorough search reveals the teddy bear nestled near her pillows. 

_Admit it, Eve. You wish I was here._

More frenzied tearing exposes the injection-molded heart of the bear, Villanelle’s voice on a loop until she frees it from the stuffing and pauses the playback. She’s breathing hard again, adrenaline and fear and — hope? — coursing through her system at the possibility of Villanelle’s proximity. She gawks at the hideous pink teddy, crown, tulle, and all, before hurling it at the ground, the bear emitting a pitiful squeak before resting motionless on the floor. 

Eve, ever a glutton for punishment, presses the button again. 

_Admit it, Eve. You wish I was here._

And again. _Admit it, Eve. You wish I was here._ She raises the heart to her ear, cradling it as she listens: _Admit it, Eve. You wish I was here._

 _Admit it, Eve._ A pause, longer this time.

 _You wish I was here._ But the rejoinder is out of sync this time, a second voice echoing the recording a moment later and from further away. Eve looks up, casting her gaze towards the doorway. 

“Hi, Eve.”

—

Eve is tempted to lunge at Villanelle like she had on the bus, but she’s too tired to do anything more than pitch the bear, then its little plastic heart, directly at Villanelle’s head. Only the former makes contact. 

“ _Eve_ , that could have hit me!” Villanelle gasps, mock outrage on her face. 

“I know. That was the point,” Eve replies, glancing around her for anything else she can propel Villanelle’s way. Her eyes settle on the wine glass. That would do. Nice. Pointy. 

“Don’t,” Villanelle warns, following Eve’s survey for projectiles. She propels herself off the doorframe and into the room. 

“You’re locking your door now. Good,” she says nonchalantly, swaggering towards Eve. Eve, for her part, has not picked up the glass, but has resorted to glaring at Villanelle as she approaches. 

“You know, it is not nice to kiss someone then attack them with your head,” Villanelle begins. “Also, your skull is very hard. You bruised my beautiful face!” 

“You _shot_ me!” Eve stands then, aggrieved. “You shot me and left me for dead!”

“What’s a shot or two between friends?” Villanelle retorts, “especially friends who have stabbed you and then murder someone with an axe for you?” 

“You betrayed my trust. You had me cross a line — do something I can never undo — and you laughed about it. And then you had the gall to tell me you loved me?” Eve laughs, a dry, hollow sound. “Villanelle, that’s psychopathic, even for you.” At that, Villanelle stops, as if something doesn’t quite add up. 

“May I remind you, _you_ kissed _me_?” It’s meant to be a declaration, but comes out more as a question.

Even in retrospect, Eve’s not sure she can justify the rationale behind the kiss. She’d needed a distraction, sure, and what better way than to throw Villanelle off by given her what she wants? But Eve knew that Villanelle tracking her down in London meant that she was more invested than she’d claimed in Rome, which also meant that she wouldn’t hurt Eve, not in the traditional sense. Whatever she claimed, Eve had known she was perfectly safe on the bus. She’d kissed Villanelle anyway. 

And oh, does Eve remember it. Remembers the feeling of Villanelle’s frank scrutiny as they were pressed against each other, legs tangling in a perverse mirror of the multitude of dreams Eve had tried to push away. Remembers their breath coming either in short bursts or not at all, before Eve had taken the option away and slotted their mouths together. Remembers kissing Villanelle, and if it’s not fireworks because their eyes are open, it’s not far from it. Villanelle’s lips are pliant, and it’s nothing like Eve had imagined, nothing like kissing Niko; Niko, who is —

The sobering nudge of reality that causes Eve to disengage, and remind her of why she’s mad at Villanelle. Hence the head butt. 

“You killed Gemma,” Eve counters. 

Villanelle laughs sharply. “You can’t tell me that you cared about that awful woman. Begging and pleading until the very end. If she hadn’t been so annoying, I might even have spared her.” 

Eve ignores the obvious bait, though her anger spikes again. “Do you even _care_ about the chaos you leave behind? Niko’s been in hospital ever since.” She sees Villanelle attempting to rearrange her features to look appropriately somber. 

“He’s better off without you,” Villanelle tries, and Eve knows she’s trying to figure out how to keep Niko out of the picture. Eve would like to believe that she’s some kind of gallant knight, swooping in to rescue Niko and save the day, when really, she’s known all along that any association with her puts his life in danger. Gemma’s gruesome end had been proof of that. And while he wasn’t at risk of harm by Villanelle, who knows Niko is off limits as long as she wants Eve in her life in any meaningful way, The Twelve had no such reason to be as forgiving. 

Villanelle has paused, regarding Eve. Then, she flips the script: “ _You’re_ better off without him.” 

And isn’t that the crux of it all? Villanelle’s got her number, Eve jolts. Has understood her far better than anyone has before. While Eve should care about how her decisions impact her husband, she’s made a pattern of choices that show she really never has. Sure, maybe it had started differently, but deep down, Eve has always been more selfish than she’d care to let on, not fitting neatly into the boxes of _femininity_ and _modesty_ and _docility_ or even _heterosexuality_ the world — and Niko — had tried to pigeonhole her into. 

Eve’s head hurts again. 

Villanelle is standing nearer to Eve than before, close enough for Eve to smell the remnants of the perfume Villanelle had been wearing earlier in the day. It’s not strong enough for a reaction anymore, but the individual fragrance notes have blurred together and combined with Villanelle’s shampoo, creating a confusing cacophony of scent. 

Villanelle is also close enough to reach out and move an errant curl off of Eve’s face. “You kissed me,” she says, once again more a question than a statement. She’s _confused_ , Eve realizes. For the first time, Eve senses Villanelle’s vulnerability, far beyond anything she’d come to expect in Rome. 

Villanelle’s hand is resting in Eve’s hair, just above her ear, foreheads nearly touching, a tender facsimile of their earlier moment together. The thought of leaving Villanelle unanswered feels unthinkable right now, makes Eve want to crawl out of her own skin, but Eve is finding it difficult to breathe, let alone string together coherent sentences about feelings and motivations. 

So she does the next best thing, and kisses Villanelle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the “beautiful face” comment was actually written in here pre-finale. is villanelle predictable or what?


	3. this feeling, it’s love and i know it

Once again, Villanelle really shouldn’t be surprised. She must be losing her edge, because she can’t seem to predict anything Eve will do these days. Then again, violence and desire for the two of them seem to go hand in hand, two faces of the same twisted coin, so how is she to know which side it will land on this time? 

All she knows is, one moment her hand is in Eve’s (curly, luxurious, glorious) hair, and the next Eve’s lips are on hers, tasting of salt and sweat and _Eve_. Her lips are slightly chapped, slot messily against Villanelle’s at first, until she seems to realize, takes a beat, readjusts, and — _oh_. 

So _this_ is what kissing someone you love feels like. Eve had accused her of not knowing what that word meant, but what else could it mean, if it didn’t mean fizzing like an electrical storm on a dry summer night wherever she touches you? Feeling ready to spontaneously combust when her mouth is on yours? She can’t remember the last time she’s felt like this, been kissed like this, been _held_ like this. 

Villanelle then remembers where she is: Eve’s mouth is warm and wet and welcoming, and Villanelle doesn’t have any more time to contemplate before Eve parts her lips, her tongue making some very convincing arguments around why Eve should be the full focus of her attention right now. 

Villanelle searches blindly for Eve’s hand with her free hand, clasping their fingers together as she attempts to navigate backwards to the bed, nearly tripping on the stupid bear on the way. When she makes contact with the wooden frame, she flips positions with Eve, disengaging for a moment before pushing gently on her torso so Eve’s legs bend and her back hits the mattress. Villanelle, still standing, grins. 

—

Eve takes advantage of the pause in the action to actually _look_ at what Villanelle is wearing. 

She’s dressed simply, in an oversized pyjama shirt with a teddy bear graphic on the front (Villanelle must have taken special care to find this pattern in the obnoxiously loud orange and glow-in-the-dark green). She’s also wearing what look surprisingly close to sweatpants, somehow elevating the entire ensemble to high fashion. 

Eve has never been more attracted to anyone in her life.

Villanelle notices her watching, raking her own eyes over Eve’s tight t-shirt and jeans. A shiver runs straight through Eve’s body, energizing her head to toe. 

“Get down here,” she rasps, propping herself up on one elbow and pulling Villanelle down with her other hand. She uses Villanelle’s momentary distraction at being yanked towards the bed to divorce Villanelle from her teddy bear top. Villanelle breaks her fall by propping her own arm next to Eve, positioning her bra-clad chest directly in Eve’s line of sight. 

Eve’s mouth is dry. She reaches for the clasp and tries to unhook it with one hand. While she’s perfected the move on herself, she clearly lacks practice on _other_ people, because she ends up needing to sit back up and use both hands. 

“Need some help?” Villanelle laughs. But Eve isn’t paying attention, because Villanelle is now naked from the waist up, and she is _glorious_. The woman who had claimed to Bill that she wasn’t interested in women, not like _that_ , feels like an iteration of Eve from an eternity ago. 

Eve reaches out her hand experimentally, cupping Villanelle’s breast and curling her thumb over a pink nipple. Villanelle is no longer laughing. 

“Keep doing that,” she says, her voice edged with gravel, and guides Eve’s shirt off of her torso and on to the floor. The bra quickly follows. 

“Fuck,” Villanelle says, reverence in her eyes. Eve can’t believe that this incredible woman, young and beautiful and vivacious, _wants_ her. Is turned on by her. 

Because it’s very becoming very obvious, as Villanelle tugs on Eve’s jeans and shimmies out of her own pants, that Villanelle _does_ want. Her breathing and pulse have quickened, eyes dilated and stray hairs fly haphazardly out of her normally orderly ponytail. Eve suspects her own state hasn’t fared any better. 

They’re both down to just their underwear now, Eve on the bed with Villanelle draped against her. One of Villanelle’s hands is in Eve’s hair, firmly clasping the thick locks. The back of her other hand skates down Eve’s body — her hair, her mouth, her chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake — until it finds its desired home in the stickiness between her legs. Villanelle kisses her again, opens her mouth, pushing deeper this time than she has before. 

Eve’s underwear comes off, replaced by Villanelle’s fingers. They explore gently, teasing and touching and becoming familiar, until Eve is squirming in Villanelle’s arms, mewling embarrassingly. Villanelle gets the message. A few more strokes, and then — suddenly, shockingly, _finally_ — Villanelle is inside her. 

It’s both nothing and everything at once. Eve isn’t sure what she had expected it to feel like, but she’s certain it was nothing like _this_ — warmth and motion and wetness captivating her until her focus is reduced to only the places where they are joined. Villanelle is still kissing her, and Eve has to take a moment to get used to the double onslaught of Villanelle’s mouth and fingers working her up in different ways. 

Villanelle’s fingers find their mark again and again and _again_ , touch honed with experience and directed with expert precision where Eve is most sensitive. 

Honestly, how had Eve lived for four decades without ever trying this? 

Eve has never been loud in bed, but Villanelle’s ministrations get more groans tumbling out of her than ever before. She digs her nails into Villanelle’s back in retaliation. Villanelle gasps. 

Eve had already been on edge before Villanelle showed up, so it doesn’t take much longer for her to trip over the precipice. One particularly well-timed thrust from Villanelle and Eve is falling, inch by inch at first, then all at once. To say she sees stars would be an exaggeration, but not by much. 

Villanelle grins, looking smug, but doesn’t remove her hand. Eve glares at her, sensitive, but Villanelle doesn’t relent until she builds Eve up again, cresting her over the horizon a second time. 

“Not fair,” Eve says, breathlessly, when she feels capable of forming words again. “It’s my turn.”

“I didn’t see you complaining,” Villanelle smirks, but brings her hand upwards to her lips and _licks_. 

_Fuck_. 

Eve’s had enough. She flips them over and tugs on Villanelle’s arm to position them closer to the edge of the bed. Villanelle’s knees are bent and her legs dangle, not quite reaching the floor, a mirror of Eve’s pose from earlier in the night when everything had been brand new. 

But that’s not strictly true — it’s not new, and hasn’t been new for quite a while. Admitting anything else would be a lie, when it feels like the two of them have been hurtling towards this moment since that fateful moment in the bathroom when the sparks had first taken hold. 

In that moment, Eve realizes what she wants to do, and reaches out to her nightstand for a hair tie. 

—

“You don’t have to, you know,” Villanelle says, voice rough, her body on edge, feeling exposed. “I know — I know you haven’t done anything like this before.” 

Eve frowns, then smirks. “It’s okay, I know what I’m doing,” she says, and dives right in. 

And — _god_ — Eve’s tongue on her is nothing short of a revelation. Villanelle has had plenty of good sex — great sex, even — but in this moment she knows that she would be perfectly content spending the rest of her life worshipping at the altar of Eve if this is her reward. 

There’s no reason Eve should be this good at this this soon, but Villanelle has once again underestimated the role that _feelings_ play. It feels like she has been splayed open, Eve gently caressing each nerve ending until they have all been sparked alight. 

Eve could draw it out, but for this first time, she chooses mercy, and brings her conscientious, clever hands to where Villanelle needs them most. Villanelle feels, rather than sees, Eve smile against her. 

That’s all it takes for Villanelle to cry out, her face suspended with her mouth open, back arching and hands grasping at the sheets. The initial wave gradually gives way to the aftershocks that pervade her body for several drawn-out moments. Villanelle might have been embarrassed at how quickly everything had happened, but not with Eve. Never with Eve. 

Eve, for her part, looks like the cat that got the cream. In this case, the saying was more accurate than she’d care to admit. 

The magnitude of what has happened here hasn’t set in yet for either of them, Villanelle knows. She’s not sure when the penny will drop; when the tightrope-balancing act will topple and threaten everything that she holds dear. 

But those are problems for future Villanelle and Eve. Right now, Eve is joining her on the bed and curling up against her under the covers, fighting and losing the battle to keep the blanket draped over her bare chest. Villanelle feels a rush of affection at the sight. For once, her mind is remarkably, blessedly still. 

She kisses Eve languidly to commemorate the fact, jolting when she tastes herself on Eve’s lips. 

The tension in the air from earlier in the evening has dissipated. Soon, she’ll probably be ready for a round two, but for now, she is content simply reveling in the moment. 

Eve notices her watching and smiles. Villanelle smiles right back. 

“Want to watch a movie?” she suggests. 

Eve laughs, and reaches for the remote. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. My first attempt at writing anything like this. 
> 
> Would love to hear what worked for you, what didn’t — any feedback (especially constructive criticism and/or tips) would be super helpful. And since you’ve made it to the end, thank you for reading this far!


End file.
